The Tragedy Of Quinn Fabray
by unoriginalrhombus
Summary: The Tragedy is this: Quinn pretty much despises everything. Her marriage (to her HS sweetheart) is bland, her job (at the Empire State Building) is dull, and her life (at 24) is stagnant. The best part of her day is this hotel concierge who Quinn has built a sort-of camaraderie with. The woman is witty/charming & she makes Quinn feel like this isn't the life she was meant to lead.


_A/N: I am extremely aware that this position does not actually exist at The Empire State building. It does, however, exist at the National icon that I work at. So. Basically I just created a position for my own well being. Anyway, read and review. PLEEEEASE._

_A/N 2: I know I need to update my other stories. Please don't murder me. The creative bunny goes where it wants!_

* * *

**Always Something There To Remind Me**

**(The Prologue)**

Her job blows.

Don't get Quinn wrong, she's grateful that she has this job. She's grateful for the four, ten hour shifts that she's forced to work every week so that she can afford her wide array of cup of noodles and her one bedroom apartment-if you could call the tiny box she was living in an apartment, that is. The rent was obscene and the room barely allowed two people to breathe comfortably inside of it, but it was still home, and on most days Quinn loved it. Anyway, Quinn's grateful because she's _here_ and _here_ is just so much better than Lima could ever be.

But, still, it _blows_.

It's something she can't help but think about every time she enters through the ground floor of the Empire State Building, when she's surrounded by hordes of people who are all clamoring to get to the same exact place. She does her best not to get lost in the massive crowd by stepping to the side, but it doesn't really help.

(It never does.)

Quinn quickly decides to follow behind a rather large group of tourists before she gets unfortunately swept up in the crowd- all of whom, by the way, are voicing their excitement over the building rather loudly- and does her best not to roll her eyes. It's the same story every time, and it amazes Quinn that people could count their experiences so important when there were literally thousands of other people experiencing the same damn thing.

Quinn falls into step with them just as quickly as she fell into this job, into her marriage, and into her relationship with Finn.

It just sort of _happens_.

She flashes a smile at Peter-the sixty-two year old security guard who's worked for the building for almost forty years, and who just so happens to _always_ have a smile-and tries to ignore all the curious stares that follow her when she cuts in front of the line. She takes a quick right, completely avoiding the elevator, and scans her ID card so that she can enter the staircase that most people don't even notice.

She walks down the three flights of stairs in relative silence, her right hand gripping her ID card a little too tightly. When she hits the flat ground of the basement, she steps into a slight jog, her body suddenly aware of every little sound. She's worked here three years now and somehow this walk still gives her the creeps, so she usually jogs down the hallway until she gets to her office.

She scans her ID card and sighs in relief when the door clicks open without a fuss. The badges are new but the building isn't and sometimes it likes to give her a bit of a fight before it opens. Quinn pushes open the door and turns on the lights, her eyes taking in the sight of her office.

There's a printer in the back corner against the wall and directly across from it is a board listing all the facts about that Empire State Building that anyone would ever need to know. To her right is her desk, cherry wood and large. It's covered in fruit snack wrappers and a Mac Desktop that they decided she was lucky enough to have. Her phone and headset are next to her computer and both were blinking, which means that somebody has already left her a message.

_Great._

Quinn doesn't contain her sigh as she shuts the door behind her. She drops her bag unceremoniously on her desk and swipes all of her wrappers into her garbage bin with one fatal swoop. She sits down, her chair squeaking awkwardly since it hasn't been touched in three days, and Quinn rolls her shoulders before reaching for her headset.

She logs into her phone before logging into her computer and damn near grimaces when she sees seventy-two unread emails. She reaches for the voicemail button on her phone and tries not to frown when this lady with a nasally voice starts speaking way too loudly, as if she had figured that shouting would help her get her point across.

_And so it begins._

* * *

"Thanks for calling ESB, this is Lucy. What can I do for you?" Quinn answers in a well practiced rush. Her body is hunched over her desk and her head is resting carelessly on her elbows. She's a little over nine hours in and she's absolutely fatigued. There's something to be said about working in a landmark. At any given time, Quinn was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people. And _still_, she was lonely.

"Hey Lucy," a husky voice greets through the phone.

Quinn shoots up in her chair, her back going rigid and a smile crossing her lips. "Lopez!" She yells a little too enthusiastically. "I was starting to think you wouldn't call."

"Yeah, well, I have to keep you on your toes. Otherwise you'll just come to expect these gracious calls from me all the time."

Quinn laughs, her right hand reaching up to twirl the ends of her hair. It's a nervous habit that's always been hard for her to break. "To what do I owe this particular pleasure?"

"Getting straight to the point. I enjoy a girl who has a bit of direction." Lopez comments offhandedly. "Okay, so, I have a group of thirty-five here that says they tried to purchase tickets online and the website wouldn't let them put in their credit card information."

Quinn frowns and pulls up the site, her eyes looking for any bugs that could have snuck through. "Did they enter in the credit card information correctly?"

"They said they did. Twice."

Quinn scans the ticket purchasing page and sighs when she doesn't see anything that could point her in the right direction. "Hmm. I don't know. Did they remember to click the purchase button at the end?"

"Hold on," Quinn hears Lopez say before her voice becomes muffled. She's back a minute later, her voice amused. "Apparently some people don't know how to read."

"The curse of living in a first world country," Quinn jokes. She's doesn't voice her relief at the situation-even though she's sure Lopez can hear it in her voice, she's too close to the end of her shift to have any setbacks now.

"I wish we could, like, put all the stupid people on an island." Lopez bites out, her voice a little more rough than a few minutes before. "But then they'd probably think it was a reality show, so there'd be no real fun in it."

Quinn smiles at the thought, her face scrunching together in an effort not to laugh. "Is this what you do at work?"

"Well, yeah," Lopez answers as if it's obvious. "That and talk to you. My life is full of possibilities, you see. I could either be talking to you or thinking of new ways to kill myself. I haven't decided which one is more exciting yet."

"Aw, you flatter me."

Lopez laughs and it's amazing how the sound just wakes Quinn up. As if her laugh was Quinn's own personal caffeine. "See, you're the type of chick that totally makes this worthless concierge job mean a little something, ya know?"

"You're just saying that because I fix all of your problems." Quinn chides playfully, her hands now perched awkwardly on her desk.

"Naw," Lopez responds, her voice clear and serious. "I'm saying it because it's been like, a year, yeah?"

Lopez is referring to the first call that took place almost a year ago, when Lopez was a terrified, untrained concierge and Quinn was the kind operator who walked her through a guest's crisis. Of course, it _was_ Quinn's job to make things easier for the concierges. Especially since they brought in such a high number of ticket sales. However, it wasn't her job to walk an untrained employee of a hotel that Quinn wasn't employed by through her first real guest experience. But Quinn _did _ it anyway, because she understood what it was like to feel underprepared and over challenged.

And that was the real beginning of this phone call camaraderie. Honestly, it wasn't uncommon for Quinn to have contact with the same concierges throughout the week. But Lopez seemed to call her with more and more frequency. At first, it was with questions that Lopez's bosses over at The Surrey had failed to answer. Then, as time went on and the weeks turned into months, it became the sort of thing where venting was allowed and personal questions were answered, and soon enough these were the calls Quinn looked forward to most. The calls where she was _real_ and not just some employee set to answer every question known to man.

It's silly, because she doesn't know if this makes them friends or not. She's never seen Lopez's face or even learned her real name, so it seems a little weird that she could feel so attached to this girl. But she does know other things. Like, how Lopez has an extreme fear of pigeons and that she abhors mushrooms, and maybe that's all it takes to build a friendship? Some true facts and a bond over feeling lonely in a city that should make that impossible.

"Lucy?" Lopez calls out cautiously, effectively pulling Quinn out of her daze.

(She does that a lot. Daze, that is.)

"About a year, yes."

"Right," Lopez confirms. "It's been a year since I started this job and a year since I first called you, and crazily enough, you're still the best part of my day."

Quinn smiles softly at the girl's statement and her skin gets warm all over. She can't remember a time when a compliment has ever meant as much to her as that one did now. Heck, she can't even remember the last time she actually received a compliment. It's sad really, to feel so thankless in a job where she's helped so many. _Anyway._ "Where would you be?"

"Huh?"

Quinn clears her throat after realizing that her question was sort-of out of left field. She also does that a lot, too. "Where would you be? If you weren't here? What would you be?"

Lopez sighs, all big and dramatic, and it makes Quinn's body hum fondly. It's a sound she's gotten used to over the past year. "I was supposed to be a ballerina."

Quinn snorts at Lopez's response, before she manages to clamp a hand over her mouth. "Sorry," Quinn mumbles through her hand. "I just can't imagine that."

"Yeah, well imagine it, okay? I was top shit two years ago."

"What happened?" Quinn asks. She's met with awkward silence before she decides to backtrack. "I mean, you don't have to tell me or anything."

"No, no, no," Lopez assures her. "I just haven't really spoken about it in awhile." Lopez lowers her voice next, like she's about to impart one of the world's biggest secrets. Heck, maybe she _is. _"I was the best, actually. I had gotten into Julliard on a complete ride. They were funding my housing, Lucy, all because I chose them. I was halfway thru my Senior year and even though I didn't _need_ to, I was still determined to dominate. So I pushed myself to audition for everything. And as a result, I got a lot of parts. Almost too many, actually. I was rehearsing for almost eleven hours a day by that point and one day, when I was supposed to be resting, I decided to push myself even further...and I tore a ligament in my knee."

Quinn gasps and even though it's sort-of over dramatic, it still fits the situation. Lopez laughs at the sound and even though Quinn can't see her, she knows it's not authentic. "I worked hard for eight months to get back to where I was before. But no matter how hard I tried, none of it felt right anymore. I was always two seconds off and I hesitated far too much. You can't properly _move_ if you hesitate. So I got this job as a way to ease my pain," Lopez finishes jokingly, even though it's clear that both of them don't find anything about this admission rather funny.

"I'm sorry," Quinn says, because she _is._

"It is what it is." Lopez dismisses, as if she didn't just reveal something rather personal. "What about you, huh?"

"What about me?"

"Don't play stupid with me," Lopez retorts playfully. "What would _you_ be?"

Quinn shrugs even though it's pointless because the other woman can't see her. "I don't know. I'd probably be some sort of trophy wife."

"You _are_ a wife, Lucy." Lopez points out. "And from the sound of it, he does tote you around like you're some sort of statue. But I'm not asking about his aspirations for you. I'm asking what you would _want _to be?"

Quinn exhales shakily, her heart beating erratically against her chest for no real reason at all. It's a simple question, she thinks, one that has a simple answer. It's just...no one has asked her what she's wanted for years now. Finn, while well-meaning, just assumes he _knows_. And her best friend Rachel just guesses and Frannie doesn't really even try anymore. Nobody bothers asking and because of this, Quinn doesn't really bother thinking about it.

"Lucy?"

Quinn lowers her head until her cheek is resting comfortably against her palm. "I think...I used to dream about being a writer."

Quinn expects to hear a laugh. It's what Finn had done when she had told him. It's what everyone does because they think it's a waste for such a beautiful girl to spend all her time committed to writing stories, instead of participating in them. What she doesn't see coming, though, it's Lopez's sincere response.

"I can see that."

"Really?" Quinn asks in surprise, her voice laced with disbelief.

"Really." Lopez answers. "I can see you doing anything that would make you happy, honestly."

"I wish my best friend said more things like that."

"She doesn't support you?"

"No, no." Quinn corrects before Lopez could get the wrong idea. "It's not like that. Rachel is...she has a lot on her plate all the time and sometimes it's hard for her to see anything other than what she wants to. But she's a good friend and a great person. She means well."

"I've learned that most people mean well, Lucy. It's your job to find the ones who actually treat you as well as they mean to."

Quinn wants to joke because this conversation has gotten strangely serious for a call between half-strangers, but she _can't_ because she's pretty sure Lopez is right. "You're right," Quinn mutters. "Are you happy now, Lopez? You finally got _me_ to admit that _you_ are right about something."

Lopez laughs loudly, her voice loud and carefree. "Okay, one: I am always right. Two: it's Santana."

"What's Santana?"

"Not what, asshole. _Who_." Lopez answers. "As in me? My name is Santana."

"Oh!" Quinn exclaims, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I thought you were pointing out the name of a cliff or something."

Santana doesn't bother to point out that such a topic wouldn't even make sense in this conversation. Instead, she snorts. "You're such a bitch sometimes."

"Santana." Quinn calls out instead of taking Santana's bait, her mouth getting used to the letters flowing off her tongue. "It suits you."

"Well, it is my name, Lucy." Santana retorts. "I feel like it took us too long to finally be on a first name basis."

"Quinn," Quinn corrects.

"Huh?"

Quinn licks her lips before answering. "My name is Quinn. I mean-my name is Lucy too, but I go by Quinn. Lucy is just the formal name that I list on everything. Helps me stay under the radar."

"Huh," Santana exhales more than she says. "All this time and I never knew you were an imposter."

"Hey!" Quinn exclaims, her voice taking on a playful tone. "I didn't know your first name either."

"Yeah, but that's because we don't give out first names when we call from the hotel," Santana whispers into the phone. "Shit. I have guests who need assistance."

"Oh," Quinn says, her voice ebbing with disappointment. "Okay. Until tomorrow?"

"Obviously," Santana bites out and even though Quinn has no idea what the girl looks like, she can still picture Santana rolling her eyes. "Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You are doing a really good job and I appreciate you."

"Thank you," Quinn says, because she _is_. Thankful, that is. She's thankful for this job, for her husband that has never doubted her, for her best friend who has always been there, for her tiny ass apartment and for the stray cat that seems to be permanently attached to her window. But mostly, right now, she's thankful for Santana. For these daily interactions with someone who doesn't expect Quinn to give them what they want. She's thankful for these little distractions for the world outside, from the people who are traipsing their way around above her. Quinn's thankful for Santana being a distraction, but also for kinda being her friend, and she hopes that all of that comes across in those two words.

Santana's voice turns serious. "I mean it, okay? I don't know what I'd do without these calls."

"Me neither," Quinn answers honestly.

"Anyway," Santana starts before the moment could start to feel any more ominous. "I gotta go. The thrilling life of a concierge is calling me. Goodbye, Lucy Q."

Quinn can barely get out a rushed 'goodbye Santana' before she's met with a dial tone.

_And so it ends._


End file.
